A cold March wind
danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the Doctor walked into the small
hospital room of Diana Blessing. Still groggy from surgery, her husband David
held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of
March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to
undergo an emergency cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu
Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they
already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words
dropped like bombs.

'I don't think
she's going to make it', he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a
10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some
slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one". Numb with
disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating
problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she
would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone
to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental
retardation, and on and on. "No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David,
with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a
daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream
was slipping away.

Through the dark
hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped
in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter
would live - and live to be a healthy, happy young girl.

But David, fully
awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of
ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his
wife with the inevitable. David walked in and said that we needed to talk about
making funeral arrangements. Diana remembers 'I felt so bad for him because he
was doing everything, trying to include me in what was going on, but I just
wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen.' I said, "No, that is not going to happen,
no way! I don't care what the doctors say; Danae is not going to die! One day
she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!" As if willed to
live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the
help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as
those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae's
under-developed nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or
caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny
baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love.

All they could do,
as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes
and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks
went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength
there. At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold
her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later - though doctors
continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less
living any kind of normal life, were next to zero. Danae went home from the
hospital, just as her mother had predicted. Today, five years later, Danae is a
petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest
for life. She shows no signs, what so ever, of any mental or physical
impairment. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more - but that
happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering
afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was
sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ballpark where her
brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was chattering
non-stop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she
suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, "Do you
smell that?" Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm,
Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain." Danae closed her eyes and again
asked, "Do you smell that?" Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're
about to get wet, it smells like rain. Still caught in the moment, Danae shook
her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced,
"No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His
chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped
down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's
words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family
had known, at least in their hearts, all along. During those long days and
nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive
for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving
scent that she remembers so well.

And Jesus called the children around Him

THE OLD FISHERMAN

Our house was directly across the street from the clinic
entrance of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented
the upstairs rooms to out patients at the clinic.

One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a
knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man. "Why, he's
hardly taller than my eight-year-old," I thought as I stared at the stooped,
shriveled body. But the appalling thing was his face - lopsided from swelling,
red and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said, "Good evening. I've come to
see if you've a room for just one night. I came for a treatment this morning
from the eastern shore, and there's no bus 'til morning."

He told me he'd been hunting for a room since noon but with
no success, no one seemed to have a room. "I guess it's my face ... I know it
looks terrible, but my doctor says with a few more treatments ..." For a moment
I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: "I could sleep in this rocking
chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the morning." I told him we would
find him a bed, but to rest on the porch. I went inside and finished getting
supper. When we were ready to eat I asked the old man if he would join us. "No
thank you. I have plenty." And he held up a brown paper bag.

When I had finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to
talk with him a few minutes. It didn't take long time to see that this old man
had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a
living to support his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was
hopelessly crippled from a back injury. He didn't tell it by way of complaint;
in fact, every other sentence was preface with a thanks to God for a blessing.
He was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease, which was apparently a
form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to keep going.
At bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children's room for him. When I got up in
the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little man was out on the
porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, haltingly, as
if asking a great favor, he said, "Could I please come back and stay the next
time I have a treatment? I won't put you out a bit. I can sleep fine in a
chair." He paused a moment and then added, "Your children made me feel at home.
Grownups are bothered by my face, but children don't seem to mind." I told him
he was welcome to come again.

And on his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the
morning. As a gift, he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I
had ever seen. He said he had shucked them that morning before he left so that
they'd be nice and fresh. I knew his bus left at 4:00 a.m. and I wondered what
time he had to get up in order to do this for us. In the years he came to stay
overnight with us there was never a time that he did not bring us fish or
oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages in the
mail,always by special delivery; fish and oysters packed in a box of fresh young
spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed. Knowing that he must walk three
miles to mail these, and knowing how little money he had made the gifts doubly
precious. When I received these little remembrances, I often thought of a
comment our next-door neighbor made after he left that first morning. "Did you
keep that awful looking man last night? I turned him away! You can lose roomers
by putting up such people!"

Maybe we did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! If only
they could have known him, perhaps their illness' would have been easier to
bear. I know our family always will be grateful to have known him; from him we
learned what it was to accept the bad without complaint and the good with
gratitude to God. Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse, As she
showed me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one of all, a golden
chrysanthemum, bursting with blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in
an old dented, rusty bucket. I thought to myself, "If this were my plant, I'd
put it in the loveliest container I had!" My friend changed my mind. "I ran
short of pots," she explained, "and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I
thought it wouldn't mind starting out in this old pail. It's just for a little
while, till I can put it out in the garden." She must have wondered why I
laughed so delightedly, but I was imagining just such a scene in heaven. "Here's
an especially beautiful one," God might have said when he came to the soul of
the sweet old fisherman. "He won't mind starting in this small body." All this
happened long ago-and now, in God's garden, how tall this lovely soul must
stand.

THE DAY I MET DANIEL

It was an unusually cold day for the month of May. Spring
had arrived and everything was alive with color. But a cold front from the north
had brought winter's chill back to Indiana. I sat with two friends in the
picture window of a quaint restaurant just off the corner of the town square.
The food and the company were both especially good that day. As we talked, my
attention was drawn outside,across the street. There, walking into town, was a
man who appeared to be carrying all his worldly goods on his back. He was
carrying a well-worn sign that read, "I will work for food." My heart
sank.

I brought him to the attention of my friends and noticed
that others around us had stopped eating to focus on him. Heads moved in a
mixture of sadness and disbelief. We continued with our meal, but his image
lingered in my mind. We finished our meal and went our separate ways. I had
errands to do and quickly set out to accomplish them. I glanced toward the town
square,looking somewhat halfheartedly for the strange visitor. I was fearful,
knowing that seeing him again would call some response. I drove through town and
saw nothing of him. I made some purchases at a store and got back in my
car.

Deep within me, the Spirit of God kept speaking to me:
"Don't go back to the office until you've at least driven once more around the
square." And so, with some hesitancy, I headed back into town. As I turned the
square's third corner, I saw him. He was standing on the steps of the storefront
church, going through his sack. I stopped and looked, feeling both compelled to
speak to him, yet wanting to drive on. The empty parking space on the corner
seemed to be a sign from God: an invitation to park. I pulled in, got out and
approached the town's newest visitor.

"Looking for the pastor?" I asked. "Not really," he
replied, "Just resting." "Have you eaten today?" "Oh, I ate something early this
morning." "Would you like to have lunch with me?" "Do you have some work I could
do for you?" "No work," I replied. "I commute here to work from the city, but I
would like to take you to lunch." "Sure," he replied with a smile. As he began
to gather his things. I asked some surface questions. "Where you headed?" "St.
Louis." "Where you from?" "Oh, all over; mostly Florida." "How long you been
walking?" "Fourteen years," came the reply. I knew I had met someone unusual. We
sat across from each other in the same restaurant I had left earlier. His face
was weathered slightly beyond his 38 years. His eyes were dark yet clear, and he
spoke with an eloquence and articulation that was startling. He removed his
jacket to reveal a bright red T-shirt that said, "Jesus is The Never Ending
Story."

Then Daniel's story began to unfold. He had seen rough
times early in life. He'd made some wrong choices and reaped the consequences.
Fourteen years earlier, while backpacking across the country, he had stopped on
the beach in Daytona. He tried to hire on with some men who were putting up a
large tent and some equipment. A concert, he thought. He was hired, but the tent
would not house a concert but revival services, and in those services he saw
life more clearly. He gave his life over to God. "Nothing's been the same
since", he said, "I felt the Lord telling me to keep walking, and so I did, some
14 years now."

"Ever think of stopping?" I asked. "Oh, once in a while,
when it seems to get the best of me. But God has given me this calling. I give
out Bibles. That's what's in my sack. I work to buy food and Bibles, and I give
them out when His Spirit leads." I sat amazed. My homeless friend was not
homeless. He was on a mission and lived this way by choice. The question burned
inside for a moment and then I asked: "What's it like?"

"What?" "To walk into a town carrying all your things on
your back and to show your sign?" "Oh, it was humiliating at first.

People would stare and make comments. Once someone tossed a
piece of half-eaten bread and made a gesture that certainly didn't make me feel
welcome. But then it became humbling to realize that God was using me to touch
lives and change people's concepts of other folks like me." My concept was
changing, too. We finished our dessert and gathered his things. Just outside the
door, he paused. He turned to me and said, "Come ye blessed of my Father and
inherit the kingdom I've prepared for you. For when I was hungry you gave me
food,when I was thirsty you gave me drink, a stranger and you took me in." I
felt as if we were on holy ground.

"Could you use another Bible?" I asked. He said he
preferred a certain translation. It traveled well and was not too heavy. It was
also his personal favorite. "I've read through it 14 times,"he said. "I'm not
sure we've got one of those, but let's stop by our church and see." I was able
to find my new friend a Bible that would do well, and he seemed very grateful.
"Where you headed from here?" "Well, I found this little map on the back of this
amusement park coupon." "Are you hoping to hire on there for awhile?" "No, I
just figure I should go there. I figure someone under that star right there
needs a Bible, so that's where I'm going next." He smiled, and the warmth of his
spirit radiated the sincerity of his mission. I drove him back to the town
square where we'd met two hours earlier, and as we drove, it started raining. We
parked and unloaded his things.

"Would you sign my autograph book?" he asked. "I like to
keep messages from folks I meet."I wrote in his little book that his commitment
to his calling had touched my life. I encouraged him to stay strong. And I left
him with a verse of scripture, in Jeremiah, "I know the plans I have for you,"
declared the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you
a future and a hope."

"Thanks, man," he said. "I know we just met and we're
really just strangers, but I love you." "I know," I said, "I love you, too."
"The Lord is good." "Yes. He is. How long has it been since someone hugged you?"
I asked. "A long time," he replied. And so on the busy street corner in the
drizzling rain, my new friend and I embraced, and I felt deep inside that I had
been changed. He put his things on his back, smiled his winning smile and said,
"See you in the New Jerusalem." "I'll be there!" was my reply.

He began his journey again. He headed away with his sign
dangling from his bed roll and pack of Bibles. He stopped, turned and said,
"When you see something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?" "You
bet," I shouted back, "God bless." "God bless." And that was the last I saw of
him. Late that evening as I left my office, the wind blew strong. The cold front
had settled hard upon the town. I bundled up and hurried to my car. As I sat
back and reached for the emergency brake, I saw them ... a pair of well-worn
brown work gloves neatly laid over the length of the handle. I picked them up
and thought of my friend and wondered if his hands would stay warm that night
without them. I remembered his words: "If you see something that makes you think
of me, will you pray for me?" Today his gloves lie on my desk in my office. They
help me to see the world and its people in a new way, and they help me remember
those two hours with my unique friend and to pray for his ministry. "See you in
the New Jerusalem," he said.

Yes, Daniel, I know I will
...

DON'T LET ME CRY

My son Gilbert was eight years old and had been in Cub
Scouts only a short time. During one of his meetings he was handed a sheet of
paper, a block of wood and four tires and told to return home and give all to
"dad".

That was not an easy task for Gilbert to do. Dad was not
receptive to doing things with his son. But Gilbert tried. Dad read the paper
and scoffed at the idea of making a pine wood derby car with his young, eager
son. The block of wood remained untouched as the weeks passed.

Finally, mom stepped in to see if I could figure this all
out. The project began. Having no carpentry skills, she decided it would be best
if she simply read the directions and let Gilbert do the work. And he did. She
read aloud the measurements, the rules of what they could do and what we
couldn't do.

Within days his block of wood was turning into a pinewood
derby car. A little lopsided, but looking great (at least through the eyes of
mom). Gilbert had not seen any of the other kids cars and was feeling pretty
proud of his "Blue Lightning", the pride that comes with knowing you did
something on your own.

Then the big night came. With his blue pinewood derby in
his hand and pride in his heart they headed to the big race. Once there
Gilbert's pride turned to humility. His car was obviously the only car made
entirely on his own. All the other cars were a father-son partnership, with cool
paint jobs and sleek body styles made for speed.

A few of the boys giggled as they looked at Gilbert's
lopsided, wobbly, unattractive vehicle. To add to the humility Gilbert was the
only boy without a man at his side. A couple of the boys who were from single
parent homes at least had an uncle or grandfather by their side, Gilbert had
"Mom".

As the race began it was done in elimination fashion. You
kept racing as long as you were the winner. One by one the cars raced down the
finely sanded ramp. Finally it was between Gilbert and the sleekest, fastest
looking car there. As the last race was about to begin, my wide eyed, shy eight
year old ask if they could stop the race for a minute, because he wanted to
pray. The race stopped.

Gilbert hit his knees clutching his funny looking block of
wood between his hands. With a wrinkled brow he set to converse with his Father.
He prayed in earnest for a very long minute and a half. Then he stood, smile on
his face and announced, 'Okay, I am ready."

As the crowd cheered, a boy named Tommy stood with his
father as their car sped down the ramp. Gilbert stood with his Father within his
heart and watched his block of wood wobble down the ramp with surprisingly great
speed and rushed over the finish line a fraction of a second before Tommy's
car.

Gilbert leaped into the air with a loud "Thank you" as the
crowd roared in approval. The Scout Master came up to Gilbert with microphone in
hand and asked the obvious question, "So you prayed to win, huh, Gilbert?" To
which the young boy answered, "Oh, no sir. That wouldn't be fair to ask God to
help you beat someone else. I just asked Him to make it so I don't cry when I
lose."

Children seem to have a wisdom far beyond us. Gilbert
didn't ask God to win the race, he didn't ask God to fix the out come, Gilbert
asked God to give him strength in the outcome. When Gilbert first saw the other
cars he didn't cry out to God, "No fair, they had a fathers help".

No, he went to his Father for strength. Perhaps we spend
too much of our prayer time asking God to rig the race, to make us number one,
or too much time asking God to remove us from the struggle, when we should be
seeking God's strength to get through the struggle. Gilbert didn't pray to win,
thus hurt someone else, he prayed that God supply the grace to lose with
dignity. Gilbert, by his stopping the race to speak to his Father also showed
the crowd that he wasn't there without a "dad", but His Father was most
definitely there with him. Yes, Gilbert walked away a winner that night, with
his Father at his side.

THROUGH THE EYES OF A
CHILD

And Jesus called a little
child unto him, and set him in the midst of them. And said, verily I say unto
you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter
into the kingdom of heaven. Matt.18:3-4

We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I
sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly eating and
talking.

Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, "Hi there." He
pounded his fat baby hands on the high-chair tray. His eyes were wide with
excitement and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin. He wriggled and giggled
with merriment.

I looked around and saw the source of his
merriment.

It was a man with a tattered rag of a coat; dirty, greasy
and worn. His pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out
of would be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and
unwashed.

His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his
nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to
smell, but I was sure he smelled.

His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. "Hi there,
baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster," the man said to Erik. My husband and
I exchanged looks, "What do we do?" Erik continued to laugh and answer, "Hi, hi
there."

Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and
then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby.
Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room,"Do ya know patty
cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo."

Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously
drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence; all except for
Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid-row bum, who
in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.

We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My
husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The
old man sat poised between me and the door. "Lord, just let me out of here
before he speaks to me or Erik," I prayed.

As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to
side step him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned
over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's "pick-me-up" position.

Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my
arms to the man's. Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby
consummated their love relationship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and
submission laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes
closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime,
pain, and hard labor gently, so gently, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his
back.

No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a
time. I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms for a
moment, and then his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm
commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." Somehow I managed, "I will,"
from a throat that contained a stone. He pried Erik from his chest -
unwillingly, longingly, as though he were in pain.

I said nothing more than a muttered thanks. With Erik in my
arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding
Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, "My God, my God, forgive me."

I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the
innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw
a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind,
holding a child who was not. I felt it was God asking "Are you willing to share
your son for a moment?" when He shared His for all eternity.

The ragged old man,
unwittingly, had reminded me, "To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as
little children."

GOD'S VOICE

Several years ago I owned a car wash/express lube with my
father. During this time God put a very beautiful woman of God in our business.
Neither myself or my wife was saved. We started going to church at Terry's
request and felt God calling us till we both broke down at the alter and gave
our lives to Christ. Terry ministered to us when we needed uplifting but her
presence was such and inspiration during hard times. One such time was when I
had back surgery, removing a ruptured disk. I was devastated. Normally active,
athletic and healthy I was learning how frail I was. Recovery was slow.

I was working December 2, 1995 running our business when an
employee said, "Jim, you gotta see this. Someone is crushed under a van in front
of the car wash." I immediately went to the front and saw something mangled
under the van and people standing around. I felt as if I had to run. I did and
started calling for employees to follow. I got to the van and sure enough there
was a person under the van. I remember everything being really quiet inside of
me and God's voice speaking, "lift the van". I remember not thinking but going
to the back of the van and lifting it, not just waist high but chest high. The
reality set in, I then prayed God don't let this crush me. I started to become
frightened. Then I felt a wave of calm fill me then I yelled pull him out.
People were still not responding. One of my Christian employees went under the
van and pulled him out. I went to the side of the victim but he was not
breathing and had no pulse.

Things got really still inside of me again and God
commanded me to breath life back into him. This time I hesitated. I saw all of
the blood and was scared of aids or other diseases. God spoke to me and
reassured me. Then said breath. As I did this I was aware that over 40 people
were praying from the road, my wife, employees, passersby. After the breath his
eyes popped open. It was so clear and peaceful. He turned out to be a 14 year
old boy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He made a miraculous recovery with out scars. His parents,
their whole church and over 1400 people prayed for me as I had developed a lump
on my surgery scar and was having pain. It was completely healed the next day.
The boys name is Issac Burrows. He and his parents were precious people of God.
I told him that God had a beautiful plan for his life and never to doubt or
question Gods plan.

I want everyone to know that it was an honor to be used by
the most Holy One. All the Glory and Honor to God. God speaks to us all. You too
my friend have heard his voice. I have not responded many times thinking this
can't be right, I'll pray some more about it. Then it is gone. If you lose the
opportunity to serve God you miss a beautiful blessing. Be responsive, right
then. God has a plan for each of our lives. I thank him everyday for his plan
for mine and have completely surrendered every part of my life to Jesus. If you
don't know him or are away, he's waiting for you. Don't miss his call. His Mercy
and Joy are yours for the asking. Don't miss the call.

THE RADIO

As told to me by my minister, as related to him from the
minister that it happened to.

It was a cold evening in upper New York State, it looked
like it could snow. The mountain roads were damp with sheets of ice, so it was
strange to see a four door sedan speeding recklessly through the night. Inside
the car was a woman probably in her late thirties looking at the road as if in a
trance. She wasn't aware of the tires squealing on the turns. You see it didn't
matter to her if she ran off the road and crashed into the valley below, because
she was going to kill herself.

We don't know why her life had no meaning to her any more.
It could have been a bad marriage or the abortion of a child, whisky or dope.
The main thing was she had no where to turn, no one to trust, no one including
herself that thought her life had any value. She had come up this road before.
But tonight she was determined she would make it to the top and then off the
road and into the gorge.

Upset and nervous she switched on the radio to calm down
until she reached the top. A calm voice came on and she listened, it was a
minister. She had never been very religious even as a child, her family was
always to busy for church. This man was talking about Jesus. How much He loved
us, how He died for us. She wished she had something to die for. Something
besides putting an end to her problems.

The minister was inviting people to the service now, he was
giving the address of the church. It was a country church on the same highway
she was on. A small town up ahead. She had been through it before. It was almost
to the top of the mountain. She might stop and find out more about this man
Jesus and what He died for. She would like to have a purpose to her death,
something besides escaping her miserable life.

As she went into the Church the same man with the quite
voice was speaking. Her mind was still not functioning well but she was picking
up some of the words. This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us
and sent His Son ... "Because he loves me" says the Lord, "I will rescue him"
... "I will not forsake you, I will never leave you" ... The time passed and
tears were running down her eyes. The service was over and the man was calling
people to be saved. He was staring at her. She knew he was talking to her. She
quietly got up and walked down the aisle and knelt before him as she dedicated
her life to Jesus.

She
felt new, clean, her troubles were just a memory. People were smiling at her and
hugging her. Two people said they loved her, another asked if she would come
back and join them. The minister brought his wife to meet her. She smiled at the
minister and thanked him. She said "my life was almost over when I heard your
broadcast." "What do you mean sister?" "Your radio broadcast, I heard it in the
car right before I came in." "Sister we are a very small church we don't have a
radio broadcast."

A Kindness
returned:

The man slowly looked up. This was a woman
clearly accustomed to the finer things of life. Her coat was new. She looked
like that she had never missed a meal in her life. His first thought was that
she wanted to make fun of him, like so many others had done before.

"Leave me
alone," he growled.

To his
amazement, the woman continued standing.

She was
smiling - her even white teeth displayed in dazzling rows.

"Are you
hungry?" she asked.

"No," he
answered sarcastically. "I've just come from dining with the president. Now go
away." The woman's smile became even broader.

Suddenly
the man felt a gentle hand under his arm. "What are you doing, lady?" The man
asked angrily. "I said to leave me alone."

Just then a
policeman came up. "Is there any problem, ma'am?" he asked.

"No problem
here, officer," the woman answered. "I'm just trying to get this man to his
feet. Will you help me?"

The officer
scratched his head. "That's old Jack. He's been a fixture around here for a
couple of years. What do you want with him?"

"See that
cafeteria over there?" she asked. "I'm going to get him something to eat and get
him out of the cold for awhile."

"This is a
good deal for you, Jack," the officer answered. "Don't blow it."

Finally,
and with some difficulty, the woman and the police officer got Jack into the
cafeteria and sat him at a table in a remote corner. It was the middle of the
morning, so most of the breakfast crowd had already left and the lunch bunch had
not yet arrived. The manager strode across the cafeteria and stood by the
table.

"What's
going on here, officer?" he asked. "What is all this. Is this man in
trouble?"

"This lady
brought this man in here to be fed," the policeman answered.

"Not in
here!" the manager replied angrily. "Having a person like that here is bad for
business."

Old Jack
smiled a toothless grin. "See, lady. I told you so. Now if you'll let me go. I
didn't want to come here in the first place."

The woman
turned to the cafeteria manager and smiled. "Sir, are you familiar with Eddy and
Associates, the banking firm down the street?"

"Of course
I am," the manager answered impatiently. "They hold their weekly meetings in one
of my banquet rooms."

"And do you
make a goodly amount of money providing food at these weekly meetings?"

"What
business is that of yours?"

"I, sir, am
Penelope Eddy, president and CEO of the company."

"Oh."

The woman
smiled again. "I thought that might make a difference."

She glanced
at the cop who was busy stifling a giggle. "Would you like to join us in a cup
of coffee and a meal, officer?"

"No thanks,
ma'am," the officer replied. "I'm on duty."

"Then,
perhaps, a cup of coffee to go?"

"Yes,
ma'am. That would be very nice."

The
cafeteria manager turned on his heel. "I'll get your coffee for you right away,
officer."

The officer
watched him walk away. "You certainly put him in his place," he said.

"That was
not my intent. Believe it or not, I have a reason for all this."

She sat
down at the table across from her amazed dinner guest. She stared at him
intently. "Jack, do you remember me?"

Old Jack
searched her face with his old, rheumy eyes "I think so - I mean you do look
familiar."

"I'm a
little older perhaps," she said. "Maybe I've even filled out more than in my
younger days when you worked here, and I came through that very door, cold and
hungry."

"Ma'am?"
the officer said questioningly. He couldn't believe that such a magnificently
turned out woman could ever have been hungry.

"I was just
out of college," the woman began. "I had come to the city looking for a job, but
I couldn't find anything. Finally I was down to my last few cents and had been
kicked out of my apartment. I walked the streets for days. It was February and I
was cold and nearly starving. I saw this place and walked in on the off chance
that I could get something to eat."

Jack lit up
with a smile. "Now I remember," he said. "I was behind the serving counter. You
came up and asked me if you could work for something to eat. I said that it was
against company policy."

"I know,"
the woman continued. "Then you made me the biggest roast beef sandwich that I
had ever seen, gave me a cup of coffee, and told me to go over to a corner table
and enjoy it. I was afraid that you would get into trouble. Then, when I looked
over, I saw you put the price of my food in the cash register. I knew then that
everything would be alright."

"So you
started your own business?" Old Jack said.

"I got a
job that very afternoon. I worked my way up. Eventually I started my own
business, that, with the help of God, prospered." She opened her purse and
pulled out a business card. "When you are finished here, I want you to pay a
visit to a Mr. Lyons. He's the personnel director of my company. I'll go talk to
him now and I'm certain he'll find something for you to do around the office."
She smiled. "I think he might even find the funds to give you a little advance
so that you can buy some clothes and get a place to live until you get on your
feet. If you ever need anything, my door is always opened to you."

There were
tears in the old man's eyes. "How can I ever thank you?" he said.

Outside the
cafeteria, the officer and the woman paused at the entrance before going their
separate ways. "Thank you for all your help, officer," she said.

"On the contrary,
Ms. Eddy," he answered. "Thank you. I saw a miracle today, something that I will
never forget. And ... And thank you for the coffee."

Calm in the midst of the storm:

Years ago, I was enthralled as I listened to a pastor who
for several years had faithfully served the church. His executive
responsibilities had taken him all over this country. As he concluded his
message, he told of one of the most frightening yet thought-provoking
experiences of his life.

He had been on a long flight from one place to another. The
first warning of the approaching problems came when the sign on the airplane
flashed on: Fasten your seat belts. Then, after a while, a calm voice said, "We
shall not be serving the beverages at this time as we are expecting a little
turbulence. Please be sure your seat belt is fastened."

As he looked around the aircraft, it became obvious that
many of the passengers were becoming apprehensive. Later, the voice of the
announcer said, "We are so sorry that we are unable to serve the meal at this
time. The turbulence is still ahead of us."

And then the storm broke. The ominous cracks of thunder
could be heard even above the roar of the engines. Lightening lit up the
darkening skies, and within moments that great plane was like a cork tossed
around on a celestial ocean. One moment the airplane was lifted on terrific
currents of air; the next, it dropped as if it were about to crash.

The pastor confessed that he shared the discomfort and fear
of those around him. He said, "As I looked around the plane, I could see that
nearly all the passengers were upset and alarmed. Some were praying. The future
seemed ominous and many were wondering if they would make it through the
storm.

Then, I suddenly saw a little girl. Apparently the storm
meant nothing to her. She had tucked her feet beneath her as she sat on her
seat; she was reading a book and every thing within her small world was calm and
orderly. Sometimes she closed her eyes, then she would read again; then she
would straighten her legs, but worry and fear were not in her world. When the
plane was being buffeted by the terrible storm, when it lurched this way and
that, as it rose and fell with frightening severity, when all the adults were
scared half to death, that marvelous child was completely composed and
unafraid." The minister could hardly believe his eyes.

It was not surprising therefore, that when the plane
finally reached its destination and all the passengers were hurrying to
disembark, our pastor lingered to speak to the girl whom he had watched for such
a long time. Having commented about the storm and behavior of the plane, he
asked why she had not been afraid.

The sweet child replied, "Sir, my Dad is the pilot, and he
is taking me home."

There are many kinds of storms that buffet us.

Physical, mental, financial, domestic, and many other
storms can easily and quickly darken our skies and throw our plane into
apparently uncontrollable movement. We have all known such times, and let us be
honest and confess, it is much easier to be at rest when our feet are on the
ground than when we are being tossed about a darkened sky.

Let us remember: Our
Father is the Pilot. He is in control and He is taking us home

The Catholic Church, in her 2000-year history, is never
wanting in awe-inspiring stories of heroism and martyrdom.

From the persecutions of ancient Rome to the
Communist atrocities of the 20th century, the Church always had faithful sons
and daughters who exhibited extraordinary courage and resolve in face of the
most extremes of adversities. One little known story though no less edifying is
that of a little Chinese girl-martyr at the time when China had just been run
over by the Communists. It is the poignant tale of a little girl�s faith, zeal
and keen Catholic sense overcoming fear and oppression.

The narrative that follows is an adaptation of
the English translation of an unnamed priest�s first hand account of the
events that happened during the Communist takeover in China (presumably around
1949.) The story was extracted from a collection of beautiful Eucharistic
stories and miracles compiled by Fr. Karl Maria Harrer and published originally
in German (Die sch�en Eucharistischen Wunder.)

Uncertain times

When the Communists first came into town, the
parish priest started to feel uneasy about his fate not knowing how the
intruders would act. During each day that passed, he paid keen attention to
every din or commotion that transpired outside the church as he knelt in prayer
inside. He was on edge expecting to be executed at any moment.

Just a day after the unwelcome band of soldiers
arrived, someone paid him a visit. Thinking it was the police, he was struck
with terror. Could this be his end? But contrary to his worst fears, the man at
the door turned out to be cordial. As they conversed in Chinese, he was told to
proceed with his daily routine. As they parted, his guest accepted a cigar,
bowed and eventually left seemingly contented.

Days, weeks and months passed without any
untoward incident. He would run into soldiers in the streets but they would only
look at him with a straight, cold face but not without a dose of curiosity.
Once, he felt perturbed when a certain inspector dropped by to see him.

Turning the tables

One beautiful summer�s day, just when things
seemed to be settling down, the dreadful gang of communists finally descended on
the town to turn things upside-down. Four soldiers and the inspector
unceremoniously barged into the priest�s school house.

The inspector announced to the shocked
schoolchildren that sweeping and drastic changes would be implemented from then
on. In one fell swoop, the fearsome commander and his cohorts began tearing down
the crucifix, holy pictures, blackboards and statues from the walls and laid
them on the desks.

In a stentorian voice, he barked orders at the
terrified children to put the articles in a box and to take them to the toilet
while he threatened them with his handgun. In spite of the harsh treatment, the
children resisted but eventually complied reluctantly.

An icon of resistance

But deep back in the room, sat a little girl in
her desk; unmoving, with hands folded, and lips tightly shut. As the inspector
caught sight of her, he immediately rushed in her direction and shouted curses
at her. Mad as hell, he threatened her, �Take this!� But the girl only
looked down and hardly flinched thus sending the rest of the terrorized children
to gawk with bated breath.

Amidst the ghastly silence, a shot rang out
shattering glass and driving the children into tears and screams. The violent
disturbance attracted curious townsfolk to gather in front of the school.

The inspector kept on shouting furiously. And
yet the little girl remained silent, still frozen like a statue, a big tear
rolling off her cheek. At the point of losing composure at the girl�s staunch
yet quiet defiance, he turned his ire at the crowd and snapped, �Go find this
girl�s father and bring the townspeople here in the church!�

Desecration of the Hosts

As the church filled with people, the little
girl�s father was ushered in with hands bound behind his back and placed to
the right of the communion rail. Immediately, the girl was forcefully shoved
into the communion rail.

The inspector spoke to the crowd and mocked the
people�s belief in the Real Presence. And in a malicious and sarcastic tone,
he announced that they were tricked into believing that God is present in the
tabernacle. In fact, he told them he and his gang of soldiers would stamp on the
Hosts with their boots to show nothing would happen.

Then the soldiers rushed on to the tabernacle
and forced it opened with their revolvers. The tense crowd watched in silent
disbelief. The inspector seized the ciborium, took the lid off and scattered the
Hosts on the sanctuary floor.

Egging on his soldiers, he ordered them to go
and step on the Hosts. And without hesitation they carried out the dastardly
act. Not content with that, he taunted the crowd, �Do you still believe in
those fairytales your priest told you?�

Turning to the child�s father he asked him if
he still believed. No sooner did the father say yes did the inspector order him
to be hauled away.

Dispersal

A non-commissioned officer then entered the
scene who spoke with the inspector. They reached an agreement and the inspector
submitted to higher authority. The crowd was told to disperse leaving the little
girl alone in the communion rail.

The soldiers incarcerated the priest in the
church�s coal bin where a small opening allowed him to see the area of the
sanctuary where the Hosts lay strewn on the floor as well as the little girl who
was leaning on the wall.

A beautiful lady

While peering through the opening, the priest
saw a lovely young woman clad in beautiful garments enter and smile. As she
hugged her, she said, "Poor child! Poor little one, what have these men done to
you? Come with me. Will you?" The child broke into sobs and sought comfort in
the woman�s arm and they left.

Witnessing a marvel from his cell

As time went by, the priest lost track of hours
and days while imprisoned in the coal bin. He endured the stillness of the
surroundings and at times he heard sounds he wasn�t used to. One morning, he
heard the door open quietly. Through the little opening, the priest saw the
little Chinese girl sneaking ever so carefully into the sanctuary, kneeling and
bowing in homage. As she lowered her head, she took a desecrated Host with her
tongue. She raised her head, folded her hands, closed her eyes and prayed in
silence. Several moments later, she arose and departed.

Every morning the priest witnessed the
uplifting scene that became a source of comfort inside the dark and somber
environs of his makeshift prison cell. There he eagerly waited the break of dawn
expecting to see the sweet, enchanting, little girl receive and adore the Host.
Though it occurred many times, he couldn�t recall how often times she came to
practice the soul-stirring daily ritual.

A Heroic Death

But alas, the day of final reckoning arrived.
As the little heroine went through her daily pious exercise one morning; knees
bent, hands folded and absorbed in deep prayer, the church door behind her burst
open. Tumultuous screams stirred the air and a shot rang out.

As the priest hurriedly looked through his
peephole, he saw the pallid little girl crawl agonizingly along the floor as she
reached a Host to receive Holy Communion. When the soldier drew near to check on
her, she tried in vain to pull herself up and to fold her hands. Instead she
fell on her back and hit her head on the floor with a thud. The little Chinese
girl-martyr lay dead motionless on the floor. For a moment, the soldier stood
hesitant not knowing what to make of his deed and its fatal outcome. Finally, he
turned around and stormed out of the church.

Set free

The moving yet harrowing scene left the priest
in a state of shock. While he pondered on that painful experience, his prison
door opened and the same soldier went in to announce that he was free to go.

Without any hesitation, he scampered towards
the sanctuary to see the lifeless little girl. As he knelt besides her, the
soldier approached him and uttered, �Sir, if in every town there was such a
little girl, no soldier would ever fight for the Communists!�

Fortunately, the priest still had time to give
the little martyr a decent burial. As he left the cemetery and walked along the
road, a man approached and invited him into his car. He dropped him off at the
border.

Edifying example

The story above moved Archbishop Fulton Sheen
to make a vow to pray a holy hour in front of the Blessed Sacrament for the rest
of his life. But who wouldn�t be? Indeed, the little Chinese girl�s zeal to
receive and adore the desecrated Hosts on the sanctuary floor is really worth
emulating much more in our days when lukewarm Catholics take for granted the
Real Presence in the church tabernacle. Her acts of reverence put to shame those
who present themselves before the Blessed Sacrament in questionable attire or
those who fail to show respect by observing silence. May this little Chinese
girl-martyr be a shining and glorious example for all of us. May she spur us to
make a firm resolve the next time we visit a church to thank Our Lord Jesus
Christ for the privilege and opportunity to adore Him FREELY in the Blessed
Sacrament!

HOW TO STAY SAFEIN THE WORLD TODAYAvoid riding in
automobiles because they are responsible for 20% of all fatal
accidents.

Do not stay home because 17% of all accidents
occur in the home.

Avoid walking on streets or sidewalks because
14% of all accidents occur to pedestrians.

Avoid traveling by air, rail, or water because
16% of all accidents involve these forms of transportation.

Of the remaining 33%, 32% of all deaths occur
in Hospitals. So, ... above all else, avoid hospitals.

BUT, ...You will be
pleased to learn that only 001% of all deaths occur in worship services in
church, and these are usually related to previous physical disorders. Therefore,
logic tells us that the safest place for you to be at any given point in time is
at church!

...
And ... Bible study is safe too.The percentage of
deaths during Bible study is even less.

Once a great order, cultural
changes over the past few hundredyears had sapped its
strength. All of its branch houses wereclosed and there
were only five monks left in the decayingmother house:
the abbot and four others, all over 70 years ofage.
Clearly it was a dying order.

In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a
littlehut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally
used for ahermitage. The monks could always sense when
the rabbi was inthe woods, and during one such visit it
occurred to the abbot topay the rabbi a visit and to
ask if he might have some advicethat could save the
monastery.

The rabbi
welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbotexplained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could onlycommiserate with him. "I know how it is," he said. "The
spirithas gone out of the people. It is the same in my
town. Almostno one comes to the synagogue anymore."

So the old men wept
together. They read parts of sacredscriptures and spoke
quietly of deep things. When the abbotfinally rose to
leave, they embraced, and he asked again:"Is there
nothing you can tell me to help me save my dyingorder?"
"No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded. "I have no adviceto give.

The only thing I can say is that one of you is the
Messiah."

When the abbot
returned to the monastery, his fellow monksgathered
around him to ask, "Well, what did the rabbi say?"

"He couldn't help," the
abbot answered. "We just wept and readholy scriptures
together. Although, just as I was leaving, hedid say
something rather strange. He said that the Messiah isone of us. I don't know what he meant."

In the days and weeks that
followed, the old monks pondered thisand wondered
whether there was any possible significance to therabbi's words.

The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have
meant one ofus monks here at the monastery? If that's
the case, which one?

Do
you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, heprobably meant Father Abbot. On the other hand, he might
havemeant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a
holy man.

He surely could
not have meant Brother Eldred! Eldred is alwaysso
crotchety. Though, come to think of it, Eldred is virtuallyalways right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did meanBrother Eldred.

But certainly not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive,
areal nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a
gift forsomehow always being there for you when you
need him. MaybePhillip is the Messiah.

Of course the rabbi didn't
mean me, each of them thought in turnabout themselves.
He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm justan ordinary
person. Yet suppose he did? Suppose I am the Messiah?O,
God, not me, each thought. I couldn't be that much for theothers,

Could I?

As they each contemplated in this manner, the old monks
began totreat each other with extraordinary respect on
the off chancethat one among them might be the Messiah.
And on the off, offchance that each monk himself might
be the Messiah, they beganto treat themselves with
extraordinary respect.

It
so happened that people still occasionally came to visit themonastery, to picnic on its green lawn, to wander along its
manypaths, even to sit in the old chapel to meditate.
As they didso, without even being conscious of it, they
sensed this aura ofextraordinary respect that now began
to surround the five oldmonks and seemed to radiate out
from them and permeate theatmosphere of the place.

Hardly knowing why, they
began to come back to the monasterymore frequently to
picnic, to play, to pray.

They began to bring their friends to show them this
specialplace. And their friends brought their
friends.Then it happened that some of the younger
visitors started totalk more and more with the old
monks.

After awhile, one
asked if he could join them.Then another. And
another.Within a few years, the monastery had once
again become athriving order and thanks to the rabbi's
gift, a vibrantcommunity of spirituality and
light

" The Room."In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found
myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one
wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries
that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files,
which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction,
had very different headings.As I drew near the wall of
files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I
opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to
realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being
told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a
crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every
moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder
and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly
opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories;
others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder
to see if anyone was watching.

A file
named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles
ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have
Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at."

Some were
almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others
I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered
Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents
Often there were many more cards than expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I
was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.

Could it
be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or
even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in
my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I
pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched," I realized the files grew
to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or
three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much
by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file
represented.

When I
came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I
pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a
card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a
moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me.

One
thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever
see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out.
Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards...But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the
floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a
card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and
utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against
the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I
saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was
brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and
a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count
the cards it contained on one hand.And then the tears
came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach
and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from
the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my
tear-filled eyes... No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up
and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please
not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.. I watched helplessly as He began to
open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in
the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than
my own.. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and
looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But
this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my
hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could
have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with
me.

Then He got up
and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took
out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!"
I shouted rushing to Him.. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the
card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written
in red so rich, so dark, and so alive.The name of Jesus
covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back He
smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.. I don't think I'll ever
understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him
close the last file and walk back to my side.. He placed His hand on my shoulder
and said, "It is finished."

Pass it
onA few years ago, I was having an incredibly
tough time in my life. I felt as though my world was crumbling. Everything
seemed to be going wrong for me.

To start with, I was overworked and
overwhelmed, trying to finish my pre-med degree while holding down a night job
as a nurse. I was working through a hurtful breakup, my parents were going away
for almost two months and I was alone in the house, and my computer
crashed.

But these were only the minor things. The
crisis was that I had received my score on the MCAT (Medical College Admissions
Test), a test that determines admittance into medical school. This was an exam I
had studied for day and night for months.

I had done too poorly to gain entry. I was
crushed.

Being a doctor was my lifelong dream. Yet after
years of working as a nurse to pay my way through four long years of pre-med
studies, I would have to kiss it all good-bye. I felt that all those years with
little sleep and hard work were a total waste.

Mourning the loss of my aspirations, I was very
depressed and desperate. I figured I should find another career since I didn't
want to stay a nurse and constantly be reminded of a failed dream as I saw all
the new, young doctors.

As I cried to my mother, who almost canceled
her trip to be with me, she told me to pray and ask God for His help and
guidance. That's all I could do, and so I did exactly
that.

A few days later, a close friend was comforting
me over the phone as I cried. He told me an anecdote about President Abraham
Lincoln that I was not aware of. He told me that everything he did in his early
life was failure, failure, failure, after failure. And then as we all
know, he was a success. Those were my friend's
words.

The very next day I was waiting in line at a
store when something caught my attention. I looked up to see a computer monitor
of some sort on the cashier's booth facing me.

On it was a picture of Abraham Lincoln -- and
an inscription next to his image that said, "Failure, failure, failure, failure,
success. Pass it on."

At that exact same second my cell phone rang. I
picked it up and it was my friend, who had told me the night before almost these
exact same words!

It was obvious to me that this was a message
from God to not give up.

From that day on, things started getting better
and the problems started fixing themselves. Most important, today I am halfway
finished with medical school. I am preparing for my first board exam and am at
the top of my class with a perfect grade point
average.

It seems as though He wanted me to go in this
direction and did not allow me to give up. I still receive messages from Him
that direct me through my path in life and he always comes
through.

I am sharing this with those who will read this
because I believe G-d sent me a message that day in the store to "Pass it On." I
hope so much that this will show you all that if you need help or guidance
please do NOT hesitate to ask Him.

Be open to receiving miracles and allow
yourself to be touched by the hand of God. Bless you
all.